


Roses and Tide

by fairmanor



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Enemies to Lovers in Crime, First Mate David Rose, Former Royal David Rose, Lesbian Stevie Budd, M/M, Mentioned Rose Family, Other, Patrick is first gen Irish-American, Pirate AU, Sea Shanties, Sebastien Raine is an Asshole, Stevie is a badass, Stowaway Patrick, Swordfighting, Your ships are on a ship, [hums the wellerman as i write]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28790316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairmanor/pseuds/fairmanor
Summary: Stevie is a badass lesbian pirate captain. David is her first mate. Patrick is a stowaway looking for an adventure. That's pretty much it.Directly inspired by "Sea Shanty TikTok" and literally nothing else, here's an 18th century Pirate AU.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & Lots of Women, Stevie Budd & Patrick Brewer, Stevie Budd/Alexis Rose
Comments: 58
Kudos: 84





	1. Soon May the Wellerman Come

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally no explanation for this other than that I absorb memes like a sponge and I cannot stop listening to sea shanties. 
> 
> By the way, I have no grasp on where exactly they're from, or why David is in the royal family yet in my head he still has a North American accent, I know nothing. I'm just vibing and playing pirates after a very long week.
> 
> Enjoy!

“David! _David Rose!_ Are you even paying attention to me? _Pull!”_

What with the wind whipping around his face and the stamping and hollering of the crew blaring in either ear, David isn’t at all paying attention. Especially not to Stevie Budd, whom he has the rare luxury of not paying attention to without getting thrown overboard.

“It’s too much!” he screams against the gale and spray of seawater. He can feel his hair flattening, his skin drying out in the weathered assault. He thinks of the rapidly-depleting stock of rosewater and olive oil in his cabin and curses himself for ever getting aboard this damned ship. “Can we just dock for the day and wait it out?”

“Stop being such a baby, it’s only a quarter-mile of rain! Take this rope up the foremast and fold up the sail before it rips!”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

 _“Just fold it!”_ Stevie roars across the deck. She’s looking more formidable than ever in the fog with her bishop’s sleeves billowing, sword sleek and rain-wet, her hair frizzed in a wild shock of black around her head.

So David does what he’s been doing ever since he stormed out of his family home and took up aboard the _Rosebud_. He grits his teeth. He tells himself _there is no way out of this except to go through,_ and he climbs the foremast with the thick rope in hand.

He can hear Stevie on the deck, moving into what David calls her rare mood. She always tries to rally the crew when the weather gets like this, promising them chicken they don’t have and ale they can’t afford.

“Come on! Eric, put that down, we’ll practice fighting later. One week to go, lads, we can do it! Think about docking at home and blowing up that bastard Sebastien!”

David spits out a mouthful of rainwater and keeps tying. He’s spurred on by the sound of stamping and singing, which is cutting its way through the whistling wind.

_“When I was just a little lass, or so me Mammy told me,_

_Away, away, we’ll haul away, Joe!_

_That if I didn’t kiss the girls my lips would grow all moldy…”_

“Away, away, we’ll haul away Joe,” David murmurs along, putting the final knot in his rope. With the foresail tied and Ronnie just finishing on the mizzen, the boat begins on a smoother path through the patch of rain. David grips tight to the wooden pole, the muscles in his sun-beaten forearm straining as he holds himself back and raises his face to the sky.

There always comes a point on the days like these where David stops complaining about the weather and starts to embrace it. There’s a crossroads, a peak, a landmark where he stops thinking about the damage done to his hair, the splinter in his hand, what the people back home are saying about him…it’s the thrill he’s been chasing all along.

That’s why he doesn’t mind Stevie bossing him around, putting him up to tasks he hates. Because he doesn’t hate them. Not really.

Not when the rain clears, and the Atlantic Ocean looks like _this._

When David comes down from the mast, he shakes off his sodden sleeves and pats his hair dry with a rag. They’re out of the thick of the fog now, and the sun is warming away the short-but-violent spell of rain they just squeezed through. He stretches his shoulder blades out behind him, rolling them out with a satisfying crack, and rests his elbows on the edge of the ship.

There’s endless, sparkling miles of blue that never seem to get old. The view never changes, yet it _does._ David stares out, marvelling for the hundredth time about the uniqueness of every single ray of sun on every single lapping wave. He once remembers paddling a rowboat out to sea when his parents took him and Alexis to Brighton for some fresh air after their chicken pox. Alexis had gotten bored so quickly, claiming that she’d seen the sea once and therefore would never have reason to see it again. But David smiles, knowing she’ll never know this rich, unsettling beast like he does. She’ll never see this exact sight, and neither will David ever again. It’s a fickle, precious life, and he loves it.

“David! Get your head out of your ass and come clean up this mess!”

Ah. Stevie’s default mood is back.

David turns around to see Stevie fuming, surrounded by coils of wet rope, metal debris and one of the spokes from the ship’s wheel that must have been tugged off by Jake’s usual overenthusiastic direction.

He picks up the spoke with his thumb and forefinger in an illusion of productivity, though he has no idea what he’s going to do with it.

“What the hell is going on?” Stevie says to no one in particular. She puts her hands on her hips.

“What do you mean? You told me it was _just a quarter-mile of rain.”_

Stevie waves a hand before picking up a few inches of rope and wrapping it around her arm. “I just said that to get you to move. It shouldn’t have been that hard for us to move through it.”

“There was the – the island yesterday, as well,” David adds, a wave of fatigue rolling over him as he thinks about how this is the second difficult day in a row. “The ship usually recovers from bumps like that quicker. I’m pretty sure Roland was sick over the side.”

“I was, but that’s no different than usual –”

Roland’s helpful commentary is cut off by him once again sticking his head over the deck, his dirty blonde hair clumping around his face as he coughs and splutters.

David grimaces and turns away. “Right, well, I don’t know what to say. When was the last time we did a stock check?”

Stevie stares at him.

“As in…when did you last do a check of the inventory?”

…Stevie stares at him.

“Oh my God! Stevie, you are the captain of this ship! What the fuck were you doing the night before we boarded?”

Stevie tilts her head to the side and smirks.

“Um…your sister?”

“Ugh!”

David drops the wood and stalks away, leaving Stevie standing in the middle of the deck. She might be the most feared pirate captain in Europe and the Americas, but she’s a pain in David’s ass and he’s not afraid to say it.

They didn’t start out on the greatest terms. David being the son of King George’s cousin and Stevie being raised by Maureen Budd (the second most-feared pirate of this side of the century only after Stevie herself), meant that when they first met under the table of a grand ball that Maureen was raiding they’d only been taught how to fight each other. As the buccaneer crew swiped golden goblets and danced on the tables, Stevie and David scrapped under the table until David managed to wriggle free. He stood out on the balcony and looked in at the chaotic scene, and immediately fell in love with it. He loved the the grappling of power, seeing the fragility of his borne status, how easy it would be to break out of his monotonous life. As 30th in line to the throne, he hadn’t much elbow room for choice.

That was what the _Rosebud_ was to him. It was a choice. It was a bad decision and it was the best one, too.

It’s what he has to keep reminding himself of, even when he’s soaking wet and pissed off at Stevie and heading down into the pantry of the ship to begin the boring task of weighing the provisions. That this is his choice, and he’s going to keep making it.

He lifts the weights from their hook by the door and unlatches the bars to the crates of food. After three years, he thinks he knows their usual order for a short-haul journey from memory now. 6 barrels of salt beef, 56 casks of spring water, 270 pints of ale, 5 barrels of limes and another 5 of pears, pounds of bread and fruitcake, and what looks like a million bags of flour. They’re a small crew, but a greedy one. David’s looking forward to the next time they dock and they can pick up some –

Suddenly, there’s a clunk further down the passageway that David doesn’t recognise. After this long with his crew, he can detect each and every person’s footsteps from the other end of the living quarters just by the speed and the weight of them. That was no _Rosebud_ footfall.

Keeping his arm close to his torso, David reaches back for his sword and closes his long fingers around the hilt, slowly curling them over it pinkie-first until he’s gripping it tight. He backs out of the storeroom, his leather boots still wet and squeaking against his inner thighs, and bristles gently at the cool wind blowing downwards from the deck. It always feels less homely, less safe, when he thinks there’s danger aboard.

Quiet and cat-like, David moves along the passage and scans from left to right every time he passes another storeroom or a dormitory or the kitchens. Then there’s another clunk, then a shuffle, and David shouts, “Who’s there?”

David can feel his heart starting to hammer in his chest. He breathes out slowly, trying to placate himself. _Maybe it’s just a chicken. Last time it was just a chicken._

By the time he gets to the end of the passageway and into the final storeroom where they stock most of the fruit, David is almost certain he’s found it. There’s a creak of wood and low, labored breathing that David can tell whoever-they-are is trying desperately to keep quiet.

He edges his way to the corner of the storeroom. There’s a dark shadow clinging to the side of the final barrel, made possible by the crack of light in the splintered wood above. The breathing gets faster. So does David’s. He fears the worst, fears an ambush, unsheathes his sword, pulls the canvas sheet from the top of the barrels and –

Oh.

… _Oh._

There’s a boy there.

Well, not a boy.

He’s a grown man, but he must be at least three years younger than David.

And David has his sword placed under the tip of this man’s chin, still not letting up in case he’s there as a decoy and someone like Sebastien Raine is going to jump out behind him.

But David knows fear. He’s seen enough of it in his own heart to know that the way this man is flinching, his hands coming up to shield his face from the sword, is real.

He has a mop of dark red curls that are wet from the rain that’s likely escaped into here. Irish, maybe, or a first generation to the Americas. They did stop off in Maine, but not for long. 

His feet are bare.

He’s holding a lime. Thieving bastard.

And, more importantly, now David knows why the ship’s been having a bit more trouble than usual. Stevie is usually very meticulous with her mathematics and weight-to-rig ratio. This’ll have thrown her math right off.

The man looks up at him, his brown, owlish eyes wide and pleading. David wants to hate him. He really, really does.

He can’t.

But he’s not going to say that.

He reiterates the presence of his sword by pressing it closer to the man’s chin, and turns his head towards the door.

“Stevie?” he calls. “I think I’ve found the problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 Pirate Stats  
> Shanties sung: 1 [(Haul Away Joe)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2dIA6H9vLKU)  
> Ales drunk: 0  
> Planks walked: 0  
> Patricks found: 1


	2. To Bring Us Sugar and Tea and Rum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know this is very rushed but a) it's only four chapters long and b) this is very much a write-without-looking-behind fic. It's 2am and I'm extremely tired and have no idea what half of this even says

There are many things that Patrick Brewer could be thinking about right now.

Like every other minute over the past few days (weeks? decades?), hidden away and cold, he could be thinking about how much he misses his mother and her chicken pot pie.

He could take deep breaths and count to ten, then to a hundred, then to a thousand, then make up new numbers when he can’t remember what comes next.

But all that comes to mind as he cowers in the shadow of this six-foot-tall pirate with the most elaborate ruffled shirt he’s ever seen, the one who currently has his sword tip pointed under Patrick’s chin and hell in his eyes, is _well, this didn’t happen in Gulliver’s Travels._

“David, what are you waiting for? What’s the problem?” a voice calls. It’s rough and husky and unmistakeably female. This David had mentioned the name Stevie before. _Stevie Budd,_ Patrick lets himself imagine. Just like in all the ‘wanted’ posters.

But that thought is over and done with in a second, and his eyes are fixed on David. He shakes his head wildly, his curls flopping and bouncing around his head, and he swears he sees David’s gaze soften for a fraction of a moment before his eyes blaze with fury again.

“Move,” he snaps, his voice steely.

Patrick shivers. He’s terrified to his bones, unable to speak, yet he still can’t take his eyes off this man.

David draws his sword tip in a trail down Patrick’s neck, eventually resting on the edge of his grubby shirt and pulling it down to expose his collarbone.

“Move, or I’ll throw you out the window without opening it first,” David says in a deadly whisper.

Patrick scrambles up, keeping his back pressed as close to the wall as he can. Partly because he doesn’t want to get impaled on David’s sword, but also…if David wants to keep the sword there, that’d be fine too.

David keeps barely an inch between them as he walks Patrick up the deck, and by the time they get there he can feel the man’s breath hot on his neck. Patrick hasn’t seen the sun in days. The blare of light and the sudden warmth knocks him dizzy, and for a moment he thinks he feels David’s hand grip his upper arm to steady him. It’s not as tightly as he could be holding it, though.

He could have hurt Patrick so many times in the last few minutes. Could have tied him up or locked him in the storeroom. But he’s not. All things considered, he’s actually giving Patrick what he needs.

“David, what’s keeping you – oh. Oh my God.”

David opens his mouth to explain, but there’s a woman stomping towards the pair in heavy leather boots and oh God, it _is_ Stevie Budd. The sketches don’t do her justice. There’s not a pencil in the world that could mimic the curtains of salt-dry black that are whipping around the sides of her face, the way the longest parts skim the large buckle of her belt in the breeze. Her shirt is like David’s, only plainer and almost translucently white in the sun.

She looks solid and strong and exactly where she’s meant to be, and she’s fucking terrifying. Her dark eyes are glinting madly at the sight of him, and he’s pretty sure she’s cutting him up in her mind.

“Who are you?” she demands.

“I…Patrick,” he says, flushing at how pathetic he sounds. David readjusts his grip from Patrick’s tricep to the scruff of his neck.

“Patrick,” she repeats. He mentally curses his name for how easy it is to spit out the mouth like a bad taste.

The crew have started to circle around them, leering at him like he’s a chicken in a fighting ring. The woman stood at Stevie’s left-hand side, with a shaven head and large, hard eyes, is staring particularly cruelly.

“And what business do you have aboard our ship, _Patrick?”_ she says, taking a slow step forward. She’s spent the last few seconds slowly unsheathing her sword and now the basket-shaped hilt is resting on one lazy finger, twirling around and glinting in the sun.

“I –”

“Did you drop your ball on the deck and ran in to get it?” she pouts, clearly mocking him. “Or are you just another of the scared lambs who throw themselves on here hoping for their own little adventure?”

That one makes him cast his eyes to his feet, embarrassed. She’s not wrong.

But he can’t let her be right, either.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” he mutters. “You’ve been doing it longer than I have.”

He’s not entirely sure whether he intended for Stevie to hear. He regrets it more and less than anything he’s ever said in his life. The crowd stirs in a mixture of humour, outrage and cringing at whatever the hell Stevie is going to do next. He can hear David gasp softly, then stifle himself as though he was going to laugh.

She, however, is surprisingly calm. Stevie drops her sword deliberately and it lands with a clatter at Patrick’s feet. She kicks it forward, crowding him into the wooden wall. David slides out of the way and turns to stand at Stevie’s side, the two of them leering at him now.

“Right. No moving until you’ve explained yourself. If you don't speak, I'll fight the answer out of you. You try and move, you have to pick up the sword and duel David.”

“I don’t like that one,” David cuts in.

Patrick looks down. There are crew members firing questions at him left and right, some of them even proposing what they do with him as punishment, but he’s not listening to them. There’s something familiar about the sword that makes Patrick reach down and pick it up anyway.

David’s eyes widen before his face settles into an indignant scowl.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stevie says.

_The sword rests more comfortably than he’d thought it would in his palm, cool and thin below the bulb of his thumb. The tip of it is coated in mud from where it was thrown from the carriage that just sped past, wheels rickety and cart bumping. He turns it over and inspects the basket that protects his knuckles as he grips it. It’s strong and durable, exactly the kind of cutlass his father would tell him about in all his bedtime stories, and he’s left wondering what on earth the young woman in the cart, her dress a billowing meringue of pink, was doing holding it._

_Then the carriage hits the curb further up the road, and in the slight pause Patrick catches the sound of a distressed yelp on the brisk morning air. There’s someone in danger in there._

_Not even sparing a second to think about his bare feet or the errands his mother bid him before he left the house, Patrick takes off after the cart. Years of cricket have given his legs a sturdy muscle memory that works against the strength of his lungs and better judgement. The cart might be speeding round every corner it finds and putting up a good fight, but it’s no match for Patrick’s practiced sprint._

_Eventually, Patrick manages to end up hot on its wheels. He can see the blonde-haired woman through the slit of a window, reaching a pearly lace glove out the back desperately. Patrick lunges forward without thinking and jams the sword into the wheel. He wasn’t expecting it to do any damage, but it causes the motor to stutter and screech. Patrick curls his toes into the mud and dust of the road, clinging on as hard as he can as the men he supposes are bandits lose control of the carriage._

_In the loss of pace, the woman manages to clamber out with a strong kick to the door. She stumbles out with a yelp and the cart wobbles away, eventually crashing into a market stall. Chickens and stall holders flap and shout as the local sheriff descends on the two bandits._

_Patrick edges closer to the woman, busy brushing herself off on the pavement. She huffs indignantly and throws a couple of coins in the direction of the cart._

_“There, happy now? You know, you could just ask nicely! You don’t have to take me along for the ride every time,” she yells._

_Once she’s let it all out her system, Patrick approaches her and holds the sword out gingerly. She appraises him, then her eyes widen when she realises what he just did._

_“You just – did you just derail that entire cart?” she says, her pitch rising in incredulity._

_Patrick shrugs, glancing sheepishly at the wreckage. “Well, I didn’t derail half of it.”_

_He freezes for a second, suddenly aware he’s just tried to sass a lady that looks like she could have him imprisoned. To his surprise, she giggles at him and flaps her fingers at his nose and chin._

_“You’re funny! You’re funny and you_ saved _me, you little button,” she says, and Patrick finds himself smiling at the odd praise. “I much prefer that to whenever my stupid brother and his stupid crew try and fight off the bitter single dukes over forty who try and climb up to my bedroom window.”_

_Patrick’s not sure what he can do with all that information, so he just blinks and nods._

_“Right.” He hands the sword back to the woman. “I should…I should go. Sorry about – all this. I hope the rest of your morning is alright.”_

_The woman smiles, then holds out her hand. “I’m Alexis. Thanks again. I should probably write to tell David and his crew that their worn-out tactics don’t work anymore.”_

_And with a final prod to his nose, she’s gone._

That had been a few weeks ago. Overwhelmed, Patrick had spent the next couple of days feeling shaken and itching for something more. He’d been skulking around the docks for days when a ship pulled in with a carved rose on the bow, just like on the hilt of the sword. It had felt like a sign. In the commotion of people coming and going, Patrick had loaded himself on with the limes and now…now he was here, stood in front of people that probably wanted to kill him.

But he had a gamble now. He had a chance to win them over.

“You’re Alexis’ brother,” he says, gaining the confidence to meet David’s eye.

By the way both Stevie and David’s expressions drop, he knows he’s right. He steams ahead, putting the pieces together as he goes.

“You’re Alexis’ brother and you gave her one of these –” he taps a finger against the hilt of the sword, the same one hanging from the belts of every crew member – “to protect herself against creepy old men.”

There’s no mistaking the impression on Stevie’s face now. She turns to him, smile growing ever wider, and says, “It was you.”

David frowns. “Who?”

“He was the one Alexis was telling us about,” she says. “Look, he fits the bill perfectly.”

Patrick would rather not know exactly what it was Alexis said to garner that response, but he’s not complaining. Clearly the crew have heard the story too, or they wouldn’t be gaping at him with wonder and reciting a highly-embellished version of the story to each other.

The only one who doesn’t seem impressed is David. He crosses he arms, looking at Patrick from down his nose.

“Well, you’d hardly be the first to get my sister out of a pickle,” he says. “And we can’t just let you off for that. You’re holding the sword, and I believe Stevie said you had to duel someone or something.”

Patrick smiles. David’s stalling. He definitely has the upper hand here.

“Ah, I believe she said I had to duel _you,_ though.”

Stevie nods along. David clenches his fists and brings them up to his eyes then back down.

“Ugh! I’m not enjoying this sudden imbalanced social dynamic. You’re not meant to side with him, he’s – he’s a –”

“If you’re too chicken to duel, David, feel free to interrogate him,” Stevie says. “Won’t have any effect on me.”

“Fine, then,” David says haughtily, snatching the sword from Patrick’s grip and tucking it in his belt. “A battle of wits.”

“A battle of _wits?_ Ah. You could have told me beforehand.” Patrick makes a show of stepping back with his hands up in defeat. “I guess it wouldn’t be fair for me to fight an unarmed man.”

That’s the final piece, he thinks. He’s won them over now. There’s a chorus of whoops and jeers from the crowd, and the way Stevie cackles at David makes Patrick feel oddly warm. Like it’s something he could get used to. David deliberately avoids Patrick’s gaze, but he watches Stevie nudge him and mouth, _I like him._ And David rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards in reluctant agreement.

☠️☠️☠️

_Before the boat had hit the water,_

_The whale's tail came up and caught her!_

_All hands to the side, harpooned and fought her,_

_When she dived down below…_

_Soon, may the Wellerman come_

_To bring us sugar and tea and rum!_

_One day, when the tonguin' is done,_

_We'll take our leave and go!_

After spending so long with muffled voices and overhead dripping for company, the sound of the crew singing together and getting steadily drunker is deafening in Patrick’s ears as he sits in the corner and devours his sixth plate of food. He’d managed to sneak on average a lime a day in the storeroom, maybe two if he was feeling daring. At least it was fruit, but it hadn’t nearly been enough. Stevie had set him to work as soon as the first waves of tension were over, Stevie let him stay _"only because you saved Alexis, and not because I like you"_ , so Patrick had worked twice as eagerly as everyone else in order to prevent getting thrown overboard.

Despite being gnawingly hungry even after eating this much food, he can’t deny how much he feels like he belongs here. They’re like a family, laughing and teasing and drinking together. It’s like a town on the sea.

“Come on, Patrick, over here!” Stevie calls. Earlier in the day when Stevie had him knotting rope as a menial first task, David had muttered something about Stevie and Alexis being _well acquainted_ whenever the Rosebud was in town. In her drunken state, she seemed even more thankful for him. She kept slapping Patrick on the back so heartily he was sure there was a tapestry of bruises there now.

“What’s this?” Patrick says as he approaches the table of coins and cards.

“We’re betting,” Stevie explains. “On which one of us will land the best haul when we catch up to the fleet we’ve been following for years now.”

“Haul?” Patrick looks at the coins and shuffles from foot to foot. “You don’t – you know, you don’t steal from – random villages and towns minding their business, do you?”

Stevie tuts at him. Someone else cackles and another makes a noise like they’ve just seen a small puppy. “God, no. There’s this English bastard, Sebastien Raine, who does exactly what you just described. We’ve been hot on his tail for as long as I can remember, looting his ships and giving back to the people on land he steals from.”

That dispels any last lingering doubts Patrick had about being here. He could actually be doing something _useful_ in this life. He takes the ale that was offered to him and sits down, pulling the few coins he’s had in his pocket since he got here out and putting them down.

“I put ten on me landing the best,” he says. They all laugh at him, but he doesn’t mind.

For a while, he gets lost in the easy, calm game as the sailors drink ale and eat brandied fruit cake, so alcoholic it’s almost a whole drink in itself, and sing shanties. Patrick recognises the tunes from his childhood in that little coastal town, _Bones in the Ocean_ and _Santiana,_ and even finds himself joining in.

An hour in, he looks up to see a tall shadow staring in at the scene from the other side of the room. There’s a slip of sky visible from the steps he’s stood next to. The stars are starting to come out, a blanket of light and dark against a cool sea breeze, and Patrick’s suddenly hit with an urge to feel it on his skin. He excuses himself from the table and passes by David, trying to act like he never saw him but hoping he’ll follow Patrick all the while.

Once he’s up there, Patrick drinks in the refreshing air and tips his head to the sky. He’s always had these momentary flutters of panic looking out at the sea, all those miles and nowhere to go but through.

He paces against the side of the deck for a moment, drumming his fingers on the ledge and seeing if there are any breaks in the stars, any blockages that look like they might be an island.

“Having second thoughts?”

Patrick startles and turns around. David has climbed up onto the deck, looking a little softer and approachable than he did earlier.

“No, not second. More just…thoughts.”

David twists his mouth and looks down. “Can I think with you?”

Patrick shrugs. “S’ your boat. Do what you want.”

“Well, technically it’s not _my_ boat. It’s Stevie’s boat, even though I contributed a hefty amount towards the expenses and she still wrings me dry on the daily for its upkeep and maintenance, and –”

“Sounds an awful lot like your boat, David,” Patrick teases. And if David comes up to stand at his side and nudges Patrick’s forearm with his own, tongue in cheek, then Patrick pretends not to notice. Tries not to let on how utterly charmed he is.

“Mm. Maybe not all mine, but…it’s kind of like decorating a house,” David says. “If I had my way I’d strip out that pitiful interior and bring some light into the cellars. Doing inventory for days does nothing for my complexion.”

There’s a moment of companiable silence where David and Patrick stare out at the sea. The little scrap of panic that Patrick felt at first has dampened down, and he’s left wondering what it is he actually wants out of all this. Where he truly thinks this ship is going.

“I'm sorry, for...you know,” David says out of the blue. “I was a little rough this morning. That's, um, not usually me.”

While Patrick privately hopes he gets to see that side of David again, he can't deny he's relieved.

“It's okay. As long as I know I'm not in active danger of dying at anyone's hands, I think I can handle being aboard.”

“Can I ask you something?” David says.

“Go ahead.”

“Why _did_ you come aboard? You never actually answered.”

Patrick exhales slowly. The question rings through him and his immediate instinct is to say _why not?_ But that’s not really an acceptable answer. It doesn’t cover how trapped he felt at home, how much he agreed with his parent’s sentiments that he get out and see the world yet had no idea how to pursue such a thing on a meagre clerk’s salary. It doesn’t cover how he watched the ships coming in every day and yearned deep inside for whatever it was they were heading to and from, for the running away and the discovery. It doesn’t cover much, really, to simply leave it open to interpretation.

So he keeps it simple. Not quite a lie, not quite truth.

“I think I just wanted to see some different stars.”

David looks at him, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. The scruff on his face looks longer than it did in the sun and Patrick wants to reach out and touch it.

Clearing his throat, Patrick gets the focus away from him before David has the chance to question further. “And, uh, what about you? Is there anything you’re looking for?”

David swallows, looking back out at the sea. A particularly fervent wave slaps against the cladding and sends a little spray of water upwards. David trails his hand through it as he speaks.

“I think it was anything other than what I had, if I’m honest. I hadn’t much choice while I was living on land, being in line to the throne and steeped in all the notoriety and scandal that _wasn’t_ my fault, no matter what Stevie and Alexis say. When I was a child I didn’t realise travel of this scale would become so popular, so when it did I jumped at the chance and tagged along on my best enemy’s ship to see what would happen.”

“So Stevie was right, then,” Patrick says. Given the piercing glare he shoots, David knows exactly what Patrick’s about to say.

“Don’t you dare –”

“You just threw yourself on here hoping for your own little adventure, huh?”

David pushes Patrick away, and Patrick pushes back. Soon, they’re sparring on the deck, Patrick dodging some of David’s precise jabs that he definitely learned from some fancy fencing class. But Patrick, who grew up playing marbles in the street with the baker’s and butcher’s children, knew how to fight low and dirty. David conceded almost as soon as Patrick tried to tank him to the ground.

“Stop, Patrick – no, stop! Truce!”

Patrick lets go and makes a show of dusting off David’s shirt. David cringes and bats him off.

“Don’t, you’ll probably knock something out of place. This was custom-made by Marie-Jeanne Bertin,” he says, as though Patrick is meant to find any significance in that whatsoever.

“Right. And I’m sure you’re keeping it in prime condition. You know, on a boat. In the middle of the sea. Without any hot water.”

“Alright, I get it!”

David shakes his head at Patrick in a way that Patrick dares himself to describe as fond.

“If I were to –” David screws his eyes shut – “I don’t know, go and find some gin or something, would you possibly be amenable to sitting up here a while longer?”

“What, like as a peace offering?” Patrick smirks. He shakes the neckline of his shirt, directing David’s attention to the rip he put in it earlier that day.

“I…yeah, okay, if that’s what you want to call it. An olive branch, perhaps.”

Patrick nods. “I mean, if you were going to do it anyway, I suppose I’ll join in. Wind’s a bit cold, but I’ll get used to it.”

But the gin warms him right up. As does the man sitting next to him, backs propped against the cool damp wood of the deck, David leaning close and pointing out all the constellations Patrick must have missed. And he thinks, not for the first time, that there are a great deal many other things in this odd and unpredictable life that he could get used to as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 Pirate Stats  
> Shanties sung: 3 [(Wellerman)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-KO7cofMJH0), [(Bones in the Ocean)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVkD4lgXTEU), [(Santiana)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nD4gLEBGSkE)  
> Ales drunk: 94  
> Planks walked: 0  
> Patricks recruited: 1


	3. One Day, when the Tonguin' is Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three quarters of the way through! This story has been stupid and fun. But mainly fun. 🏴☠️

As the days pass, Patrick almost forgets about what Stevie told him. He’s so caught up in the thrill of being part of the crew, drinking the night away and sneaking into David’s cabin afterwards that he doesn’t even spare a thought about the fleet they’re following and what’s going to happen when they get there.

“One mile!” Stevie hollers from the rig, her hair and sword as bright as her smile as they whip and crack in the wind.

“One mile to what?” Patrick whispers to Ronnie, who’s gathering the thick rope of the anchor in her arms. She shoots him a look like he’s gone mad.

“What d’you think, you imbecile? To land!”

Patrick blinks out at the horizon, where he can see the smoggy, purplish outline of a large bay. He can’t keep himself from smiling at the sight of it; the back of his neck is red and peeling, and it’s been a while since he was thankful for the meagre rations that have been doled out every night.

He catches David’s eye from across the boat, and David smiles at him and throws him a wink. Heat pools low in Patrick's belly. Just last night, they had sought refuge in the hallway from the rowdy party the crew were holding. David had taken him against the wall, the boat rocking in time with them and the cold wind from the deck balming Patrick’s hot skin. He’d never felt anything like it.

“When we get to shore, we’ll have a proper bed,” David had murmured into his skin. “My parents have a manor in Upper Canada. We can go there once we’ve finished our work.”

Patrick was excited at the prospect, but he couldn’t help wonder if that was all that would become of their…connection. If Patrick were merely a bedfellow to pass the time. Either way, he tried to take it in his stride. If that was what this life was, he would try not to mind. Nor would he think about the way David’s eyes sparkled when he talked about the things he’d seen in Paris and London and Dublin, or the tiny smiles he’d hide in the crook of his cheek.

Patrick mills around uselessly for the remainder of the journey, content to stand at the edge of the deck and look out at the looming land. But then Stevie jumps down to his level to stand by his side, and he can’t help but notice that the closer they get, the dimmer her smile becomes. By the time there’s less than a hundred yards to go, she looks close to livid.

“David, where has he led us?” she says without turning around.

It takes Patrick a moment to remember who she’s talking about. That the ship is following Sebastien’s fleet.

David crosses the deck to share their view, and soon his face is matching Stevie’s.

“What – this isn’t –”

“Toronto.”

“Or New York.”

“Or _anywhere.”_

The mood on the ships shifts and darkens as they get closer. There aren’t any clanging bells or telltale dock buildings. There are huge boats in the harbour, some settler’s shacks, and one big manor in the distance. Patrick wonders for a wild moment if that’s the Rose’s manor that David was talking about, but he realises that the crew wouldn’t look so lost if that were the case.

Despite their confusion, they finish up docking and tentatively approach the land. Patrick feels his legs turn to jelly as soon as he hits the pier. Then David’s strong arms are on his waist from behind, steadying him.

“You’ve got to stretch out slowly at first, not jump straight onto land,” he murmurs, and despite everything Patrick feels safety envelop him, warm and solid.

The fleet in the meagre dock is completely silent. None of them have any idea how long it’s been there. Roland, one of the more optimistically reckless of the crew, hops down onto the deck of the mother ship and snoops around, calling out and wheezing at the jokes he tells to try and get the crew’s attention but…nothing.

“Come on, there must be something here we can find,” Stevie says. “Move forward.”

David keeps a hand between Patrick’s shoulder blades as the Rosebud crew make their tentative tracks. This isn’t at all what Patrick had been expecting. His coastal hometown is a buzzing, bustling thing, built almost entirely to serve the ships that come and go. The tavern is always filled with sailors, and his mother is constantly breaking up brawls between pirates and the privateers who carry their legal marques.

This, on the other hand, is bleak. It’s like the stories he heard in school about the harsh, deadly winters at Plymouth Rock. The settlements don’t just look new, they look like they’re struggling to get by. Some of them are damn near abandoned, with roofs caving in and crows nesting in the blackened chimneys.

The manor house is no better. Stevie manages to kick the door down with a thump of her heel and the crew pile in. They’re all ready to douse the old, impoverished mayor of this place in a slew of apologies before they realise that this place is just as dank and grey. A curtain falls from one of the windows of the foyer and flumps to the ground in a plume of dust.

“Hello?” Stevie calls. No answer.

They toe their way up the creaking steps, wincing every time something knocks or shudders until they reach the second floor. To their surprise, the carpet looks like it’s getting cleaner. Patrick swears he can see glimmering candlelight in a far-off room, but doesn’t dare speak up.

Stevie reaches the end of the corridor, her hand over the hilt of her sword the entire time, before she stops at the end in front of an open door and stamps her foot.

“Damn. Damn it! He’s tricked us. Led us into nothing.”

“Oh, I haven’t led you into nothing. In fact, you’re exactly where I want you.”

A second later, every hand is on every weapon. David’s face goes white and he joins Stevie at the end of the corridor.

Patrick had been right. The room is full of candles. Every surface, even the top of the bookshelf of this large office is lit up yellow, casting shadows over the treasures in the room. Patrick cranes his neck to look in and sees giant paintings, jewels, elaborate hairpieces, silverware, gold-embossed leather books and wall-mounted family crests.

And at the centre of it all, tipped back in a chair with his feet up on the large desk, is who Patrick can only assume is Sebastien Raine. He’s wearing the finest coat Patrick has ever seen, blood-red with two long tails and embroidered with gold silk and lace cuffs. His hair is wild yet tamed, and he’s drinking out of a golden goblet and picking his teeth as though he’s not at all alarmed by sudden appearance of the crew.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Stevie says, her eyes blazing with candlelight and fury.

Sebastien shrugs. “Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. It’s only what I intended to achieve from the beginning.”

 _“This_ is what you intended to achieve? Some moth-eaten dump in the middle of nowhere full of tacky crap?” David bursts out.

Sebastien shoots him an odd look, a wicked glint in his eye. He looks like he knows something David doesn’t.

“Well, you know my philosophy,” he says, gesturing around to the items in the room. “There’s something… _cathartic_ about stepping into someone’s world, don’t you think?”

“Someone else’s world...?”

David steps into the room, plucking at lengths of rich fabric and lifting up yards of long jewelled necklaces with his thumb and forefinger. His face darkens.

“Sebastien, this is my stuff. These are my things.”

Sebastien claps slowly. “Well done, David. You might not be bright, but you always get there in the end.”

Patrick shakes his head and moves forward forcefully. Stevie holds him back with a strong grip, but it still manages to get Sebastien’s attention.

“And who’s this little sprite? It’s good to know you brought the whole crew up to play, Stephanie. One can’t help but think this wouldn’t be as fun otherwise.”

With an agility that makes all three of them step back into the hall, Sebastien leaps over the table and walks forward, picking up a couple of the Rose’s possessions here and there.

“How does it feel knowing I’ve strung you along for so long, making you think I was actually interested in the provincial nothings of those meaningless little settlements, when really I’ve been driving you one step away from the things I’ve really wanted all along?”

As Sebastien steps into the brightest light, Patrick can see there’s a bejewelled Rose crest pinned to his lapel. David stiffens when he sees it.

“Sebastien,” he whispers menacingly, “what have you done to my family?”

“Oh, nothing personally,” he demurs with a false offence that makes Patrick bristle. “But my uncle Eli always was a very clever man. I’m sure he’s sorted them out. Don’t worry, it won’t be anything they don’t deserve –”

And that is _it._

Patrick’s not entirely sure what happens next. Other than his hands are around Sebastien’s stupid collar and have somehow managed to throw him across the length of the room, and he’s become very aware that there were pirates surrounding the Rosebud crew ready to jump out and strike. There’s a swish of metal as swords are unsheathed and suddenly the whole place looks lighter than it did, as though someone’s ripped a curtain away and flooded the place with sun. What used to be a ballroom or dining hall is kicked open and both sides pile in, weaving and parrying each other’s blows.

Patrick freezes to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away. David’s grappling with a woman who looks half his size but twice his strength, with a wide-brimmed hat and a tendency to screech every time she strikes a blow. Stevie is fighting off three of the largest pirates at once. When one of them hits the floor with a thud, Patrick backs out of the room until he collides with Sebastien, who seems to have brushed himself off and prepared for the fight.

Patrick clenches his fists at his side, but Sebastien doesn’t seem to be making any particular effort to attack.

“I haven’t seen you with the crew before, are you new?” he says conversationally, as though forty people aren’t beating each other up behind them.

Patrick sets his jaw. “What’s it to you?”

Sebastien juts his lower lip, leaning in to trace along Patrick’s face. “Oh, I always like to keep up to date on who David sticks around with,” he says. “It’s awfully interesting, watching them all come and go. As soon as he’s tired of getting on his knees for one, he’ll move on to the next –”

Just then, Patrick learns something rather interesting about himself.

He physically cannot be within a five-meter radius of Sebastien Raine without punching him the fuck out.

And he does.

_Hard._

****

“I can’t believe you called your own things tacky crap.”

Battered and exhausted, David, Stevie and Patrick are propped up against the wall, legs outstretched. All around them, both the Rosebud and Sebastien’s crew are hobbling away in a reluctant truce, nursing their wounds and spitting some final weak curses at each other.

David nudges at Stevie’s leg aimlessly. “Shut up, I didn’t know it was my stuff.”

“Still called it tacky crap.”

Patrick tips his head back until it hits the wall. “Ugh, this is all my fault.”

“Pshh, what’s the problem? It was fun _._ I’ve been waiting to do that for years. And besides, at least now we know what we’re looking for,” Stevie says.

“Yeah, my _family,”_ David bites back. “He’s done something to them, I know he has.”

“Taken all your money and possessions, for a start,” Stevie offers.

David springs to his feet. “They’ll be here somewhere. They have to be.”

“What – in here?”

“No, obviously! In this mud-splashed excuse of a town. He’ll have stuck them up here as a sick joke, I know it.”

David begins pacing frantically, throwing glances towards the doors. He rolls his shoulder with a wince, the fabric of his shirt gashed and a little red, then pulls Stevie and Patrick up with him.

“The crew will sort themselves out,” he says. “We’re in good enough shape to go find them.”

“But Sebastien –”

“Is still out cold,” David argues, throwing an impressed glance towards Patrick.

Patrick gives him a small smile, still burning with anger inside at what had caused him to throw a punch so hard it actually knocked Sebastien down the stairs.

They scour every building in the town, ignoring the gawks and glares from the withered, bent-backed townsfolk, until they happen across an inn from which they hear an almighty screech.

_“I can’t take it, John! We’ve been gutted!”_

David’s face lights up and he dashes into the building, taking the stairs two at a time. His family are cowering in a filthy, sparse room, their finery torn to rags and their baggage stripped from them.

“It was your capricious cad Sebastien, David,” Moira wails in unceremonious greeting, lifting her arms towards her son.

“He’s not _my_ Sebastien,” David says, grunting as he pulls them all up. Stevie runs straight to Alexis’ side, checking her for injuries and brushing her hair from her tearstained face.

“Son, we’re at a complete loss for what to do,” Johnny says, clasping David’s shoulder. “One day we’re dining with Eli Raine, the next he’s sent goddamned criminals into our home to strip us of everything we hold dear!”

“We’re going to have to take this one step at a time,” Stevie says. “We can take care of you here for now, get the landlords to put you up for free. Leave Sebastien to us.”

While Stevie takes care of the Roses, stamping downstairs to rudely ask what kind of service they’re running here, David and Patrick are left in the dirty inn room at a loss for words.

Patrick knocks his hand against the door by accident and winces. David catches sight of his bruised knuckles and winces too as though he can feel it.

“Come on, follow me. I’ll ask if they have some hot water,” David says.

Moments later, Patrick is sat on a stool in the adjoining room with David kneeling in front of him, dabbing at his hand with a warm, wet cloth.

“Sorry,” he whispers when Patrick flinches at the pain.

“I am too,” Patrick says. “And not just for my hand. I was an idiot, I got us into this mess.”

“Well, you are an idiot, I’ll give you that,” David says, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “But you didn’t start it. This has clearly been in the planning for much longer than any of us knew.”

They sit in silence as David cleans Patrick’s cuts and soothes the four bruises on his hand.

“Just out of curiosity, what was it that made you lunge at Sebastien again?” David says. He’s trying to be casual, but Patrick can tell he really wants to know.

“Other than the fact that everyone was fighting and I may have wanted in on the action?” Patrick says.

David looks at him pointedly. “Yes, more than that.”

“He just – got under my skin, that’s all. About, um, about you.”

David rolls his eyes. “When’s he not talking about me? I tell you, the man’s obsessed with me.”

“I know I should’ve ignored him, but I just – he was talking about you, um…being _easy._ And it really grated on me. So I think I was – I was defending your honour a bit.”

He feels silly saying it, like he’s some kind of wannabe chivalric knight, but the look David’s giving him is so fond and grateful that Patrick can’t help inflate a little with pride. He leans down and kisses Patrick's hand softly.

“In that case, thank you,” he says quietly.

David’s silent again for a while, tending to the task at hand. When he speaks again, he doesn’t meet Patrick’s eye.

“No one’s ever done that for me before.”

Patrick reaches down and brushes a hand through David’s hair. He puts a finger under David's chin and meets his gaze, bright and full of affection, and knows then that David’s going to be so much more than just a late-night companion at sea.

After they’ve washed and tracked down some clean shirts from the old, dour-faced maid, they light the little stove on the other side of the tiny room and climb into the bed. It’s about as comfortable as Patrick expected it to be, but he rests his head in the crook of David’s collarbone and suddenly feels like he’s going to sleep much better. It's the first time they've actually slept together in the literal sense of the phrase, and it's much, _much_ nicer than Patrick thought it would be.

“I wonder how we’re going to sort all this out,” David wonders aloud.

Patrick clears his throat. “Mm. I have…ideas.”

“Oh?”

“But can they wait until morning?” he says.

“Please. I’m exhausted.”

Patrick chuckles and holds David tighter. It’s partly because he’s tired too that he puts off the explanation, and partly because he’s still slightly worried that his plan will be a bust.

But he does have a plan. It just depends on whether he’s crazy enough to go through with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 Pirate Stats:  
> Shanties Sung: NONE, because there was no time between decking Sebastien. Although now that I think about it, that would have made a hell of a scene.  
> Sebastiens decked: 1 (twice)


	4. We'll Take Our Leave and Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally come to the end of this dumbass fic lol. Quick content warning for implied death (can be interpreted otherwise), but it's no one you'll care about, or respect, or think is nice.

Over the next few days, Patrick is restless. Despite being technically better rested than he has been in weeks thanks to this inn room bed (though it’s lumpy and creaky, it feels like a king’s bed in comparison to their quarters on the ship), everything that happened with Sebastien has been gnawing at him from the inside. He doesn’t think he’s quite prepared to relay the skeleton of his plan to the crew in case they deem him too ridiculous to continue. He’s also worried he’ll somehow scare David off in the process of it – and when he’s warm and soft and pressed sleepily up against him, he really doesn’t want to do that.

Patrick wakes up early, the sun blinding him through the ripped hessian curtains. The windows are grubby but the sun is so bright it cuts right through like soap, making dust dance under his nose. There are fingers of light laying gently on David’s face, and Patrick leans down to kiss them.

David’s eyes flutter open and he pushes Patrick off weakly.

“Mm…no. Five more hours.”

“Okay, but I want to get up and you’re in the way,” Patrick says, though his chest is squeezing at the sight of David. He wishes they could stay like this forever, and _now_ he’s thinking about how the hell he can make that happen. One day. But today, he’s got to get up and face this plan head on. It’s the only way he can truly make something of himself, make him feel like this whole _upending his life to come on an adventure_ thing was worth it.

He clambers over David gently after pressing another kiss to his hair, and pulls on his trousers and boots. It’s hot again, hot enough to burn, so he dons David’s tricorn hat before he swings open the rusty hinged door and heads outside.

Sebastien’s men are patrolling the perimeter of the manor, and there’s more towards the edge of the bay. One of them looks up and shoots Patrick a scathing look as he walks past, and Patrick has absolutely no intention of getting to know that bayonet any time soon so he pulls his hat down and keeps walking with his head low.

Thankfully, he notices that it’s easy to keep undetected when you look as small and unassuming as he does on an average day. The crew had underestimated him at first, after all. And Sebastien had called him a _little sprite_ before realising far too late that Patrick was able to deliver a blow he’s still spitting out blood from.

On foot level, rather than the far away view he’d gotten when they first docked the boat, the town doesn’t look as sparse and dead as he thought. There’s a tavern, a blacksmith’s, and a soup kitchen. There’s even a moderately sized shack that looks like it used to be some kind of general store, and even though it’s closed it hints at some former prosperity, even if just for a little while. There’s potential here, Patrick thinks, and not for the first time he feels a spark for this place that’s anything but the disdain he adopted upon first glance.

After pacing to and fro for a while, Patrick comes to a stop outside the blacksmith’s and steps inside. There’s a man sat on a bench dithering between a selection of metal, as though he has no idea what he’s doing. When Patrick clears his throat to get his attention, the man yelps and knocks one of the hot pieces into the bucket of water by his feet. It hisses, and steam blooms from the bucket.

“Ah! Sorry. You, ah, caught me off guard there.”

“Didn’t mean to startle you, sir,” Patrick says. “Actually, I’ve been looking for someone to help me out.”

The man leans forward, clearly listening. Patrick shuffles in his boots, still slightly too big for him, preparing himself to feel foolish.

“You don’t happen to know where I could find any…gunpowder in this town, could you?”

To his utter surprise, the man’s face completely lights up. “You know, I think I can help you there! If you just give me a minute to sort myself out here, you can follow me round the back.”

The man does whatever the terrible blacksmith version of sorting oneself out is and jerks his head towards the back, jogging through the door with his hands flopping around.

As soon as he’s in the next room, Patrick realises that _I think I can help you out_ is the biggest understatement since Francis Drake had called the Spanish Armada a bit of a pickle. The whole room is so full of weapons, barrels and blood-splattered flags clearly taken from battlefields that Patrick would think it was a threat if this man wasn’t so comically unthreatening.

“I served a lot of time between Louisbourg and Port-la-Joye,” the man says. “And my wife here – that’s Gwen in the corner – has a bit of a bad habit when it comes to, ah, looting fields. You have fun, don’t you Gwen?”

Gwen looks up with a sweet smile that’s completely disproportionate to this disturbing information and goes back to polishing her musket.

 _I’ve really lucked out here_ , Patrick thinks as he eyes the stacks of gunpowder and lengths of rope. In fact, there’s probably enough in here to pull off the plan that’s steadily gaining traction in his mind.

“Let me know if I can help while you look around,” he says. “The name’s Bob, by the way. What’re you looking at it for? Got a door you need to bust open?”

Patrick narrows his eyes as he assesses the ammo, weighing up how much of it they have and how much they’ll need. “Something like that, yeah.”

Soon enough, he starts to get the feeling that he’s overstepping – not with Bob and Gwen, but with Stevie and whatever plans she may have – so he says his thanks and heads back outside, on a mission to find the latter.

It doesn’t take long. Stevie’s been in pretty much the same place since the fight, slumped on a mossy rock on the coast aggressively sharpening sticks.

“You have any use for those or are you planning on turning the whole town to sawdust?” he says as he approaches.

Stevie huffs with a particularly hard swipe of her knife. “Shut up.”

Much less afraid of her than he was when he joined the crew, Patrick sits down beside her. He picks up some of the wood shavings and snaps them in half.

“You still not talking to anyone?”

“I said, shut _up,”_ Stevie hisses, her teeth gritted.

He does, but doesn’t move. He watches the water smack at the edge of the dock, glittering in the sun. Eventually, Stevie puts her knife down and sighs, long and low.

“I just have no idea what to do,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically small. “The only ideas I’ve had so far are to kill all of them, fight all of them, knock them all out, steal from them in their sleep –”

“See, and there’s your problem,” Patrick says, gaining confidence as it comes to light that Stevie has less of a plan than him. “You’re thinking with your fists. It’s not _us_ they want, it’s the money and jewels we saw Sebastien dripping in when we got here.”

Stevie frowns. When she looks up, Patrick sees that her eyes are ringed red with old tears. His chest aches with a fondness for this woman he’s learning to call his friend. She’s reckless, brave, ambitious, but she’s at a dead end. And Patrick really wants to help her.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m saying the crew – and Sebastien especially – are so money hungry that I bet we could trick them into getting out of here.”

“Trick them? Trick them how?”

Patrick takes a deep breath. “Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. We distract them or wait until they’re having one of their parties, then break into the old house and steal it all. We _pretend_ to leave the bay with it, luring them out to a few yards off the coast in their ships, and when we get them out there...”

He pauses until Stevie nudges him with her elbow. “What?”

“We blow their ships up.”

Stevie’s eyes widen. “We _what?”_ she shrieks, her face quickly morphing into something excited and indulgent. “You mean –”

“Yup. That’s…that’s what I’ve got.”

“With them _inside_?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “That was the plan, yes.”

“But they’ll –”

“Get what’s coming to them? Yes, good point. I agree.”

Stevie mulls it over.

“What if they end up stealing the stuff back from us?”

“Then they steal it back from us. Even better, we _let_ them take it so they’re all back on their ships at the same time.”

“But they’ll have all the Rose’s things with them,” she says. “I don’t know how they’ll feel about having their shit blown a hundred feet into the air and left at the bottom of the sea.”

Patrick thinks about this. About how trapped David felt by that wealth. About how it frequently made Alexis a target of greedy old men.

“Then that’s a risk we’ll have to take,” he says resolutely.

Stevie looks Patrick up and down.

“What have we done to you?” she says, a smirk playing over her lips. It fills Patrick with relief.

“Too much,” he jokes, nudging her with his arm. She nudges him back and they grapple on the cliff for a while before making their way back to the inn.

“You wake up the Roses, I’ll get the crew together,” she instructs. “I’m not sure how they’ll take this, but if we show them that there’s no other choice then they’ll probably warm up to it.”

Patrick weaves his way around the tables to the inn doors, knocking on the Rose’s politely but firmly. He hears a long, keening whine from inside that could have only come from Moira.

“Stephanie, no…I just finished crying myself to sleep –”

“It’s not Stevie,” Patrick says.

There’s a creak and a grumble as someone comes to the door. It’s wrenched open and there stands Johnny Rose in a grubby nightshirt.

“What?” he says curtly.

“Um…Stevie wants to see you downstairs.” He can’t think of anything else to say. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

Johnny sighs and looks back to where Moira and Alexis are still curled up in the two tiny beds, miserable and exhausted. He beckons them forward and Patrick steps out of the way to let them past before going hunting for David.

He gets as far as the kitchens before he’s startled by two warm, strong arms around his waist.

“What’s this I hear about you coming up with a crazy, deadly plan like the maniac you are?”

David, now up and fully dressed, presses his face into the back of Patrick’s head. He smiles and turns around, bringing his hands around David’s neck.

“Oh, nothing important,” he demurs. “Just a little fun.”

David smiles and shakes his head. “What’s happened to you?”

“Stevie said the same thing.”

Patrick leans in to brush his nose against David’s, then kisses him gently. They stay like that for a while longer, swaying from side to side, before Patrick feels the _thwap_ of a rag at his back.

“Can you two busy yourselves somewhere else so I can cook in peace?” the barmaid grumbles, pushing them out of the way to grab a jug and a basket of potatoes.

David and Patrick usher themselves out, not letting go of each other. Patrick’s giddy mood is immediately dampened, however, by the sight of Stevie, the entire crew, and the cranky Rose family sat in the main room of the inn. They’re counting on hims now. Panic crawls up his chest, and he wonders for the first time if this is actually a death trap that’s going to get everyone around him killed.

“Patrick?” Stevie throws her palms out, giving him a hard look. “Are you going to let me do this all by myself or are you going to help me explain _your_ plan?”

Patrick takes a deep breath, joins Stevie at the front of the crowd, and does just that. He fumbles his way through everything he’s explained to Stevie, only choosing to omit to the part he calculated for the final blow. For some reason, he doesn’t think bragging about potential murder of upper-class English noblemen, thieving heathens though they may be, will go down well in any respectable establishment.

“…thus, driving them away from us completely,” he’s saying, glad to be wrapping up his speech.

The crew are staring at him with the same amount of disbelief as Stevie was earlier. But it’s not entirely bad. If Patrick had any semblance of trust in his ability to read faces, he’d say these were _oh shit, he’s got a point_ expressions.

“What about the Roses?” Ronnie chimes in.

Patrick turns to her patiently. “What about them?”

“You know how easy it would be for Sebastien to take off in those boats of his. What happens if they steal everything back and try to leave?”

Patrick looks at Stevie, panicked. He’s not ready to become the source of the Rose’s outrage.

“Then that’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Stevie says, borrowing Patrick’s words. He throws her a thankful smile as the crew grumble their way through that one.

David frowns at first, but then Patrick watches him mull it over until he’s deep in thought, arms crossed as he leans against the bar on the other side of the room. Patrick can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking the same things Patrick did on the cliff.

While he’d wasted time staring at David, the crew had been firing questions and criticisms and loopholes at Stevie. Eventually, she steps forward to the nearest table and bangs the hilt of her sword down hard.

“I know this isn’t our usual way of doing things, but it’s the best we’ve got,” she says in her _I’m not going to take any more shit_ voice. “You can either be with us and do as we say, or sit this one out. I don’t care either way, but this is what we’re doing, and we’re going to want all the help we can get.”

Johnny steps forward and claps Stevie on the shoulder. “If it’s any help, we can chase down our possessions later in the year,” he says. Patrick floods with relief. “I just want him gone. We can deal with our situation once that happens.”

David raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised by his dad’s sudden burst of selflessness. Patrick meets David’s eye and tries to communicate somehow that they’re going to be fine. David seems to get the message, because he smiles softly.

“Right, everyone meet us back here later tonight to talk over the details,” Stevie calls out.

Half of the crew bustles out of the room ablaze with conversation, while the other half stay in for ale. Patrick shuffles around the bar and slips into his and David’s room. As he hoped, David notices and follows him in.

Patrick sits himself down on the little chair near the dresser. David paces in slowly, turning to look out the window.

“That is…one hell of an idea, Patrick.”

Patrick looks up worriedly. “You’re not mad, are you?”

David scoffs. “Not at all. Why would I be mad?” He puts his elbows on the windowsill, leaning his head on the wall as he stares at the warm breeze drifting through the trees outside. “I’m just thinking.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“About my family really losing all of our wealth for good. And what might happen if we do.”

Patrick sighs. “David, if you don’t want us to go ahead with it, I promise I’ll think of something else. It’s just…” He leans forward and puts a hand on David’s thigh. “I made the decision because it seemed like something that – well, not that you’d _want_ to happen, but it wouldn’t cut you up too much if it did.”

David turns around, a look of agreeing defeat on his face. “You’re right. I only ever used to feel trapped by it. It’s what drew me into Stevie’s world in the first place. It put Alexis in danger, and my parents only ever used to seem stressed or miserable.”

Patrick nods. “I know. I know, and it’s a hard call to make. If you want us to save some of the stuff to get us on our feet here, we can.”

“As long as you don’t let my mother see any of it,” David says. “I’d be loath to imagine what she’d think of herself if she got to strut around this little town in her jewels.”

Patrick laughs. Then he looks at David with more intensity. “So, do you think you’ll stay here for longer? Or are you heading off with Stevie if this goes well?”

David turns to the door. Faintly, he can hear his mother and sister arguing about something or other. “I…” He sighs, letting his hands flop into his lap. “I don’t think it would be very – ugh, very _responsible_ of me if I darted off and left my family to starve in poverty here.”

“Look at you, the pinnacle of brotherly affection. Land has changed you.”

David rolls his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

They stay there for a while, chatting idly to take their minds off everything for a while. The chatting steadily turns into very much _not_ chatting, and the sun is well on its way to setting before finally hear Stevie banging hard on the door.

“Get _up!”_ she hollers. “If you want to stay in there and not come help with our plans, fine. But this is your last warning.”

When they’re dressed, they follow Stevie into a back room of the inn where half the crew are crowded around a huge roll of parchment held open by tankards on each corner. When Patrick enters, the group part to let him through and he feels a little rush of pride.

It looks like they’ve done a lot more than Stevie let on, and there’s very little left for Patrick to help with.

“As you can see, there’ll be three of Sebastien’s men out front at midnight if we’ve got the pattern right,” Stevie says. “Usually by that time, the rest will be too cold or drunk to notice us slip through the back window into the office. We’ve got plenty of sacks from the inn kitchens to store the shit away in, and then Ronnie and Roland will be at the dock to put it on our ship. In about an hour, we’ll –”

“Wait. We’re doing this tonight?”

Stevie, bent over the parchment, straightens up. “That was the plan, yes.”

“Stevie…” Patrick widens his eyes at her, trying to wordlessly communicate that that is absolutely not enough time to plan out what they’re going to do with the gunpowder. He doesn’t even know how he’s going to pull off the secret part of this fake heist.

“Oh,” she says, realisation dawning on her. Around them, the crew begin to frown and grumble at the silence.

“So are we doing this, or what?” Ronnie cuts in.

Without taking her eyes off Patrick, Stevie nods.

“Yep, we’re doing this.”

“But Stevie –”

“Everyone make sure you’re where I told you to be in an hour!” she calls as she stalks out of the room, grabbing Patrick’s sleeve and hauling him with her.

He stumbles as he tries to keep up with her pace.

“Where are you going?”

“Where’s this blacksmith you were talking about?” she asks without looking back.

Patrick slows down, scrubbing a hand over his face as he pants heavily. “Stevie, this isn’t going to work. What we were going to do is fine, we don’t need to bother with this.”

“Uh, who was the one who told me not five hours ago that they were going to ‘get what was coming to them’?”

“A very stupid version of Patrick that didn’t think about how difficult this was going to be,” he mutters.

Stevie sighs and turns around, holding her hand out to beckon him forward. “Patrick. You can’t chicken out now. We might not even need to set it off if they’re good.”

With a little bit more protest, Patrick concedes. They knock on Bob’s door and after explaining that Stevie isn’t here to rob him – well, not without his consent anyway – they’re led into this weird weaponry section of his otherwise innocuous house and they take what they need.

“There’s this old trick my aunt used to show me,” Stevie says as they load up on weapons and powder. “Instead of just throwing the powder down onto the deck, pack it into every small receptacle you can. We’ll pack it into rope and coil it around the perimeter of the ships, the put these bigger barrels at every corner.”

Thankful that there’s someone who actually knows their shit on his side, Patrick relaxes as they roll the rest of the barrels out of the smithery. Several hundred yards away, Sebastien’s crew seem to be firing up the food and music for whatever revelry they have planned. Stevie shoots Patrick a smile as they roll the barrels to the back of the inn and wait for nightfall.

* * *

It’s the longest three hours of Patrick’s life. Longer than his several days’ worth of waiting in the ship’s scullery for someone to find him.

But finally, _finally_ they’ve arrived at the right time to start wheeling the barrels out to the dock surreptitiously. Some of the crew situate themselves around the back of the manor, ready to rob, while Patrick and Stevie set the trap down at the docks.

It takes a while, and more than once he winces as the clattering sounds of the crew bringing the gold down from the top window carry over on the wind, but it gets done. Patrick is wiping black smears of powder from his hands as he steps off the final boat, surprised to see that much more time has passed than he thought and the sky is thinning out, much less deep and dark than it was when he was tripping over his feet on the decks.

But the party is still going ahead, which gives Patrick hope. They’re drunk. They’ll be disoriented. The Rosebud have the advantage this time.

“Okay, I think we’re ready for the first stage. Roland, run around with that final bag of stuff and make a whole song and dance of it. Remember, we want to get their attention – not a literal song and dance!”

But Roland’s already swinging the bag around his head as he does a jig on the lawn, singing off-key to whatever shanty is coming from the inside.

As expected, the men inside catch on almost immediately. One of them shouts through the open door and rallies the rest of the crew as Roland starts running jerkily, throwing a wink to Stevie as he lobs the bag onto the Rosebud’s deck.

“Hey!”

Patrick tries not to freeze to the spot as the core of his plan starts to unfold before his eyes. This is it. This is it, and he’s terrified. The dawn is threatening to break through the final hour of darkness, which gives him hope that by the time they’re done they’ll be able to assess whatever damage will be done in broad daylight.

But for now, Sebastien’s men are trying to clamber onto the Rosebud, unsheathing their swords and beating people back as they reach for the bags of gold. Ronnie yanks up the anchor and gets the boat on its way, lurching everyone from side to side. The other crew is still trying to make their way on board, some of them tripping between the gap and flopping into the water below.

“To the boats! To the boats, now!” Sebastien yells, and Patrick clings on to the side as Jake manoeuvres the ship round the tight bend that takes them out of the dock. In a flash, Sebastien’s ships are crowding around them, forming a tight crescent while Stevie balances on the edge of the deck swiping her sword at the nearest.

There’s still a few of Sebastien’s crew on the Rosebud, hauling up the sacks and throwing them onto their fleet.

Patrick holds a hand out to stop Ronnie from throwing a punch at one of them.

“Let them, remember?” he says. “That’s not the main goal. We just want them out.”

Ronnie throws him a scathing look. “And what’re you gonna get out of it when we’re left high and dry with nothing in this dingy town, hm?”

Patrick says nothing, but he sticks his hand in his pockets and wraps his hands tight around the final piece of his plan. There are three glass bottles packed tightly with alcohol-soaked rags in each pocket, ones he knows Stevie has too, ready and prepared for the worst-case scenario.

From the Rosebud’s perspective, things are looking grim. The crew have already sustained a few blows and the remaining of Sebastien’s men have stolen the sacks and leaped with an impressive agility back onto their own decks.

Patrick approaches Stevie from behind and leans in close. “I think we should probably start to retreat,” he murmurs. “From here, they’re either going to escape or try and come back to the dock. We should start thinking about the…you know. Sometime soon.”

“You mean the whole blowing their shit up?”

Patrick nods. Stevie sets her jaw, staring at the fleet hard.

“Okay, retreat!” she yells to the crew, who immediately make tracks and steer the boat closer to the dock.

Several of the Rosebud crew who didn’t make it onto the ship in time are stood on the cliffside, David among them. Patrick glances upwards and remembers what he’s doing this for.

“Oh shit,” Stevie says, pulling his focus back to the ground.

“What?”

She raises a finger to the largest of Sebastien’s ships. Cannons are being wheeled into the notches at the edge of their deck, pointed directly at the Rosebud. Immediately, the crew starts shouting and picking up speed, panic thick in the air.

There’s only one way out now.

“Do you have the flint?” Patrick says.

Stevie nods. “Yup. Slingshots?”

Patrick holds them up to confirm.

“Right. In a couple more yards, start climbing up the rigging. I’ll get onto the mast and we’ll set these alight, okay?”

“Okay.”

Just like the hours that passed before it started, the next few yards feel like miles. Patrick takes a few deep, steadying breaths, quietly thanking the fact that Sebastien’s fleet are a lot further away than he thought and thus wouldn’t cause any damage to anyone near the shore.

The boat pulls closer to the dock and slowly, slowly, Patrick climbs up. To his right, Stevie is a couple of feet away, close enough to toss the flint back and forth comfortably. Below, the crew are hollering questions at them, but Patrick is too focused on the cannons that are steadily being filled to take any notice.

He strikes the flint against the wood of the rigging and lights two of the bottles. Pinching them by the end that’s not catching light, he shoots Stevie a glance and loads them into the slingshot.

“Now!”

He doesn’t have time to aim. If he wants this to work, it’ll have to happen straight and fast and with all the strength he can muster. He loads and fires bottle after bottle before throwing the flint to Stevie, who does the same with a lot more precision.

There’s a split second where Patrick feels like he’s watching the flaming glass bear down on the ships in slow motion, then after several smashes and spits of smoke everything turns white.

Even when it’s over, Patrick’s still scrubbing the flash out of his eyes. The noise on the cliffside and the Rosebud is absolutely deafening as the fleet explodes into thousands of high-shot pieces, leaving huge ripples in the water and flaming debris sailing out for miles.

Stevie cries out triumphantly as the remains of the ships sink down, followed swiftly by the rest of the crew. For a moment, Patrick thinks that’s it, and then the masses of gold and jewels that apparently ascended to the heavens for a second start to rain over the bay, some landing in the water, some coming as far as the edge of the cliff. The astonishment is palpable as the crew unload themselves from the boat and stumble onto the deck, picking at chains and family crests.

Once Patrick and Stevie have helped each other onto the dock, they’re accosted by a flurry of slapped backs and incredulous questions that he feels far too overwhelmed to answer right now, so he just laughs nervously as Stevie sees to everyone. As he walks away they’re all singing about him gaining the day, and despite the adrenaline Patrick hasn’t felt this calm in a while.

He makes a slow track up from the docks and to the cliff above the bay, feeling more bone-tired with every step he gets closer to David. It’s not a bad tired, though. It’s the kind where he knows the bed and the person he wants in it are closer with every step.

David is still watching the commotion on the shore, a satisfied smile tucked into his cheek. To his relief, the Roses don’t seem as distressed as he feared that half their possessions were currently floating to the bottom of the sea a quarter of a mile away. He suspects he might take a night-time walk one day to find Moira deep diving for the majority of it.

Finally, he meets David at the edge of the cliff, and barely gets a word in before David wraps his arms tight around Patrick’s waist.

“You’re a fucking madman,” he says, smiling into a kiss.

When they pull away, they both grimace as they tune into the very loud planning of some party or another.

“Who do you think would notice if we just skipped the whole party and went to bed in the middle of the day?”

“Honestly, I don’t care at all,” David says. He presses his forehead to Patrick’s in clear exhaustion. “But when you say go to bed, you do just mean to sleep, right?”

“God, yes.”

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Patrick’s life is blissfully boring. He eventually gets roped into more than one celebration, and a lot of the first few days are spent doing exactly what he thought Moira might be doing (with little success), but he’s comforted by the fact that he ends every single day in bed with David.

Meanwhile, Stevie seems to be getting restless about something. Patrick approaches her one evening while she’s pacing the dock, chewing on her nail as she looks out to sea.

“Thinking about going back out?” Patrick says, coming to stand beside her and join her view.

There’s a pause before Stevie responds. “Actually, no. I don’t think I am.”

Patrick frowns. That’s not what he expected her to say. “Are you sure? This is your whole life, Stevie,” he says, gesturing to the ship.

Stevie turns towards the grass behind them, to the town where their crew are milling around peacefully. Alexis is sitting on a stool outside the inn, looking out at the sunset.

“I don’t know. Not many people knew this about her, but my aunt was always looking for somewhere to settle. Somewhere to belong. She enjoyed the life she lived, the one she raised me in, but we used to sit up late and talk about making a home somewhere.”

The spark Patrick feels for this place returns, warm and bright inside his chest.

“You know, I can see it too,” he says. “And I don’t think I can last that long at sea without decent food.”

“I don’t think David can either,” she laughs.

Stevie rallies the crew the next morning as they crowd into the inn for breakfast.

“I have a proposition for you all, and I wanted to know what you think,” she says. “You may all have your opinions on this place, but I think it has potential. Our main objective for years has been the fleet, and now it’s blown to pieces at the bottom of the bay. Now, if you don’t see yourself staying here in the long term, feel free to take the boat off my hands after laying down a generous deposit and sail off into the sunset. But if you do, then…show of hands.”

To Patrick’s relief, every single member of the crew gradually raises their hands. Once that’s out of the way, the questions start.

“So, who owns this place?”

“Are we going to elect some kind of mayor?”

“Excuse me,” Roland says, standing up, “I just want to say that I was the first of us to touch land with our feet here, so I feel like I should get control of the naming. What about Schitt’s –”

“No, Roland, literally every idea that will come out of your mouth will be terrible,” David says.

Stevie holds her hands up as she ushers everyone outside. “Can we just put all this on hold for a second? There’s so much more to be done first before we talk about the deeds and name or whatever.”

After introducing themselves properly to the few residents of the town, they start to plan out what they want to do with the place. Stevie negotiates a load of wood and metal from Bob and Gwen to start plotting out residencies. Patrick spends the rest of the day milling between the different projects, feeling more peaceful than he thinks he ever has.

At the height of the afternoon, Patrick notices David stood in front of the empty general store with a curious look on his face. Patrick comes up behind him and rests his chin on David’s shoulder.

“What’re you thinking?” he says.

David cocks his head to one side. “About things,” he says. “And stuff.”

“Like houses?”

“And careers. Things I’ve wanted to do for a while.”

Patrick smiles, looking at the shell of the moderately sized building.

“You know, I can easily see another floor going on top of here,” he says. “A bit more room out the back. A porch.”

“An allotment out front,” David adds, moving to wrap his arms around Patrick.

Patrick smiles. He can see it all now. It might not be a lot, by anyone’s standards. But it’s going to be his and David’s, and one day he hopes it becomes a staple to the new settlers of this town.

He rolls up his sleeves, picks up a plank of wood, and gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to yell at me in the comments about the many, many plot holes. I will laugh along with you.


End file.
